


His Name Literally Opens Doors

by ThetaSigma



Series: Mad Doc Watson [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breaking into another top secret base, Established Relationship, M/M, Mycroft realises who his brother-in-law is, No really really BAMF, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, The shoulder wound, john is BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 09:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13924110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: Sherlock's latest case -- for reasons not quite clear to John -- requires them to sneak into another top-secret military base. Sherlock is ready with Mycroft's stolen ID, but he hadn't counted on his husband being quite so well-known in the military. John is all kinds of BAMF.Sherlock finally learns the story behind John's shoulder wound (and it is as insane as any Mad Doc story he's heard so far), and Mycroft learns just who his baby brother married.All in all, this day is getting saved to Sherlock's mind palace as one of the most glorious days of his life.





	His Name Literally Opens Doors

There’s a case. Of course there’s a case.

Somehow it leads them to some top-secret military base – John’s not entirely sure what Sherlock’s reasoning was on this one, and he’s half-tempted to think it’s his husband’s military kink insisting they go poke around, but fuck. Where Sherlock goes, John follows. It’s practically a law of nature.

It’s not Baskerville – this is less science, more military – but it’s still hidden and inaccessible and full of tetchy people with guns and no real reason not to shoot the Land Rover Sherlock’s expertly driving to the gate (Sherlock is a _shockingly_ good driver, as a matter of fact – John would’ve thought the man would be a maniac, but Sherlock knows all the laws no one else bothered to remember, and his judge of distance and speed is unbeatable).

Sherlock presents Mycroft’s ID again, and smirks as the soldiers open the gates to them.

“Right this way, Mr Holmes, sir,” one says, gesturing.

“Literally opens doors,” Sherlock reminds John in an undertone.

Once inside the base, they are met with deep, deep suspicion. John knows from Baskerville it’s unlikely they’ve caught on that Mycroft’s ID isn’t actually in Mycroft’s hands right now, but apparently, the name Mycroft Holmes isn’t a welcome one on this base.

“I need to see the barracks,” Sherlock says.

“Sorry, sir, but you’re waiting until the Major gets here,” the soldier tells him, implacable.

Sherlock looks like he wants to say, _Do you know who I am_ , but that’s melodramatic even for _him_. He waits for John to pull rank again, like he did at Baskerville, but before John can say anything, a soldier is striding towards him. Clearly the Major.

“Mr Holmes, I presume,” the man says, giving Sherlock a once-over. “You’re not welcome here.”

Sherlock tries not to gape. Mycroft not being able to get into somewhere _does not compute_. Instead, he raises an eyebrow.

“You know very well that this branch of the MOD is out of sight of the government,” the Major continues. “By your order, actually. So I’m not quite sure what you’re doing here.”

John steps in then, saluting smartly. “Right, well, Mr Holmes here needs to take a look at the barracks for an issue unrelated to whatever research and training you have going on here. We’ll be out of your hair in a bit.”

“And who the hell are you?” the Major asks belligerently.

John pulls out his military ID. “General John Watson.”

The Major’s stance shifts from threatening to… cowed? That might be cowed.

“Sir!” he says, saluting sharply. “Yes, sir, I’ll have someone escort you and Mr Holmes to the barracks, sir!”

He turns to issue orders to an underling, and Sherlock tries very, very hard not to look at John. _Christ_ , he thinks. _John’s name opens doors_ Mycroft’s _can’t_. He knows that if he looks at his husband right now, he’d beg to be fucked, in public or not. It’s only iron-control of his body that prevents him from being _achingly_ hard right now. He’s a little annoyed that they have to stay here to finish out the case – coming back onto base might be a bit tricky – because holy shit does he need his husband to fuck him _right fucking now_.

Sherlock expects to have to swipe Mycroft’s ID again at some point, like in Baskerville. _John’s_ ID is the one that gets swiped, over and over, and Sherlock isn’t sure whether to be annoyed (his plan _failed_ ), amused ( _Mycroft_ couldn’t manage _this_ ), or just really, really painfully aroused (John is _glorious_ ).

They’re in the barracks, Sherlock looking it over carefully, when an alarm sounds. “Bloody Mycroft,” Sherlock sighs. “Didn’t even text this time.”

“You got 38 minutes this time, though,” John points out reasonably. “Which you didn’t waste on a missing rabbit.”

Sherlock’s not quite sure why it took so long for them to pick up on the stolen ID – until he realises, except for that first swipe, he hadn’t been using the ID at all.

The Major returns, angry. “So, you’re not actually Mycroft Holmes,” he says. “Care to explain who you are?”

John turns to him. “He’s the man’s brother, and my husband. He has adequate security clearance, and while _he_ is not who he said he was, _I_ most certainly _am_. Your orders stand, Major. Allow this man to search the barracks.”

They engage in a silent staring war, John not backing down an inch from the angry Major and the two soldiers with him, all with guns. John’s got nothing more threatening than a pocket torch with him, but Sherlock is privately betting on John, should this come to a physical fight. The man’s utterly terrifying, and completely insane.

John finally speaks. “Would it satisfy you to run my prints, Major?”

The man gives a short, sharp nod, and John (and Sherlock) dutifully follows him to the Major’s office. The Major turns to Sherlock first, and Sherlock submits (after a glare from John that says _do not make trouble, you goddamn prat_. Sherlock’s very good at reading John’s glares by now). He lets them scan his prints. 

The computer flashes seconds later: William Sherlock Scott Holmes, highest security clearance, relevant info.

John’s prints get run next: General John Hamish Watson, with the relevant info following. His security clearance is just listed as “all access, all the time”. Sherlock’s not sure _Mycroft’s_ is that high. _Jesus_ , his husband has clout, he thinks in satisfaction. By now, he’s practically thrumming with excitement of how very very much he’s going to taunt Mycroft over this.

“Sir, my apologies.”

John waves a forgiving hand. “The barracks, Major.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

This time, the Major accompanies them to the barracks and stands back while Sherlock resumes his search. John stands well clear as well, next to the Major.

“Sir,” the Major says, somewhat hesitantly. “It’s an _honour_ to meet you, General.”

“Thank you.”

“I read the reports from Afghanistan, sir. Your work was… inspiring. Have you thought about returning to military work? We could use a man of your calibre.”

“I’m very happy with my life as it is right now, Major, but thank you.”

“I have to ask, General. Is it true that you received your shoulder wound while fighting insurgents with a scimitar?”

John nods distractedly, busy staring at Sherlock. “Yes, I didn’t have my gun that day. All I could lay my hands on was a scimitar. Worked, though.”

The Major looks in awe for a moment, then clears his throat awkwardly. “I, er, I understand why dispatch mentioned your nickname being Mad Doc Watson now. A scimitar.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

Sherlock’s listening with half an ear, and picks up on _shoulder wound – insurgents – scimitar_. He reminds himself to get the full story out of John later. It promises to be very, _very_ interesting. He crows in triumph as he finds the final piece of evidence, rushes through his reasoning for John (and, fine, the Major, who looks less impressed with that than he does with General Watson’s very presence, but Sherlock can’t really fault him for that, he’s often flummoxed by John’s presence too), and tries to resist shoving John out the door so they can have sex as soon as humanly possible.

The Major accompanies them to the gate and their Land Rover, and salutes again. “General, you are always, always welcome to return. It has been my deepest honour, sir.”

John salutes back and gets into the vehicle.

*** 

Sherlock is _gleeful_ as he drives as fast as possible back to the hotel. “God, wait until I tell Mycroft about this,” he says, practically bouncing in his seat. 

“Please don’t,” John says immediately.

“Why? My husband can get into places the British Government can’t! Oh, it’s a glorious day!”

“Yeah, I really don’t need Mycroft knowing his brother-in-law is so powerful, ta. Think of what he’d have me _do_ if he found out just who you married.”

Sherlock sees the wisdom in this immediately. Christ, if Mycroft knew that John was _General Watson_ , they’d never have peace. “No, no, Mycroft can never ever know,” Sherlock agrees. He’s not quite sure how Mycroft _doesn’t_ know yet, but John is nothing but a master of disguise. It’s hard to line up the near-mythical figure General Watson is with the image John projects most days, and Watson isn’t an uncommon last name. And with John’s records, Sherlock can almost believe Mycroft wasn’t actually able to pull all of them.

Oh, this is even _more_ glorious. A secret Mycroft won’t know. Christ, this day has been fan-fucking-tastic. A really good case solved, soldiers everywhere (Sherlock likes to look. He likes _his_ soldier to fuck him, but he also really likes to look at the other soldiers, too), John being impossibly badass just by existing, and now a secret from Mycroft. This day is getting saved to the sunniest, best room in his Mind Palace. He’s going to relive this day for _years_.

“Tell me about the wound, then,” Sherlock says. “The Major mentioned you fought insurgents off with a scimitar?”

And John is so grateful that Sherlock actually agrees about not needling Mycroft with this, he doesn’t even try to evade the story this time.

“Well,” he says, “It really starts with a powerful businessman in one of the towns near our base. We were on patrol when we heard fervent prayers and screaming and crying, and I went to check it out, with Cullman with me. We found a man practically sobbing in a hallway in a house, not even interested in the fact that soldiers with guns were there, and he shouts dramatically, ‘Oh, shoot me, what does it matter now! God is already taking the most precious thing from me!’ So I ask him what’s happening, and it turns out his eldest daughter – the only child he and his first wife had – is in labour and it’s going very poorly. The daughter is bleeding heavily and the midwife doesn’t think either she or the child will survive.

“Well, I _am_ a doctor, and the man isn’t currently a threat, and of course, a woman in labour is even less of one. So I hand my gun to Cullman, tell him to keep watch, and tell the man, ‘I’m a doctor. Let me help.’ He begs me to do anything, anything at all, to save his daughter and grandchild, so I enter the room. 

“Several hours later, I’ve stabilised the woman and delivered the child, and both will recover. The man almost falls on me in gratitude and says, ‘I am Ahmed, and for doing this, you and your soldiers will always pass safely in this town, so long as you are not a threat to us.’ So for nearly a year, I visit regularly – they have really excellent tea there – ”

Sherlock snorts. There’s one constant with John, and that’s his love of tea.

“ – and God, just such good food. Especially after days of MREs and the stuff they cook en masse in the mess hall. And Ahmed spoke true – no one ever bothered us while we were there. Eventually, I didn’t even bring my gun when I went to town. It made the locals a bit nervous, even though we had all agreed I wouldn’t use it, and they didn’t pose a threat. They revered me as the healer, and I spent some days fixing up the inhabitants. After several months, people greeted me cheerfully when they saw me come, and it was almost like being a member of their community, sorta.”

“That’s impressive, and incredibly _you_ , but how on Earth does that relate to your shoulder wound?” Sherlock asks. Okay, so slightly impatient, but he really wants to get to the badass part.

“Well, one day, I go to visit Ahmed, and his daughter and grandson. The child is almost one – and named John, after me, which was a bloody unusual name in Afghanistan, to be fair – and as I’m leaving, a crowd approaches us. Ahmed had been telling me that day that insurgents were starting to take over the town, the Taliban displeased with some of Ahmed’s practices in running the place, but I hadn’t particularly worried that they were already _there_. A few of my men were with me, enjoying the ability to get decent food, and they were armed, but I wasn’t. Except, well, we were really badly outnumbered, so I told my men to fucking _leave_.”

“Kandahar all over again?”

“Well, I didn’t ask the RAF to drop bombs on me this time. Not really a nice thing to do to Ahmed.”

Sherlock stifles laughter.

“Anyway, all I’ve got is a knife, and there are what, ten, twenty of them? Even _I_ know my chances are shit. So I dash back into Ahmed’s house and ask if he happens to have a gun anywhere. Ahmed says mournfully no, his eldest sons have the guns, he’s always been left well alone, didn’t need one, but points to a scimitar on the wall. Well. Better than nothing, so I grab it and leave. There’s a _baby_ in the house, after all, no need to bring that kind of violence on them.

“I don’t know what it was – maybe the idea that a man in British Army uniform was taking them on with a fucking scimitar, but I killed two before anyone even reacted. After that, it kinda gets hazy. Especially once the shooting started. Couple grazed me, but then I felt one embed in my shoulder, and _fuck_ , it hurt. But stopping would mean that they’d actually kill me, so I switched hands and fought like mad. Eventually, with several of them dead and a good many more bleeding, they gave it up as a bad job. The pain was making me _really_ hazy by then, but I swear one of them called me a vengeful god and said words of honour. Not quite sure, might’ve dreamed that bit.”

Sherlock’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t like to think of his John in pain.

“So I’m kneeling there on the street, covered in blood – some of it even mine, this time – and as tempting as it is just to go back to Ahmed’s, I know I need medical attention. I stumble to where we left the truck – a good mile and a half away, bloody hell – but apparently my men had decided I wasn’t getting out alive, and had left. And this time, unlike Kandahar, we’d only brought one vehicle.

“The shoulder is still bleeding, so I dug the bullet out and stitched it up myself, just so I’d be able to make it _somewhere_ to get treated. I got back to Ahmed’s and asked him, apologetically, if anyone had a vehicle I could borrow to get back to base, and within minutes, his son arrived in the most beat-up truck I’ve ever seen. Apparently, being a powerful businessman didn’t mean his son wasn’t driving a fucking shitheap. Still, it ran, and the son and Ahmed insisted that the son would drive me to base.

“Well. I mean, good, because I couldn’t actually drive right then – fuck, I could barely see straight – but as much as I trusted Ahmed, letting them know where a British base was seemed like a really bad idea.”

Sherlock made a thoughtful noise. Privately, he thought the locals likely goddamn well _knew_ where the base was and had the sense not to go near it, and John likely could’ve figured that out too, had he not been in a pain-haze at the time.

“Yeah, later I worked out they all goddamn knew where it was, it’s not like we were _hiding_. I passed out in the truck, anyway, otherwise I would’ve insisted he drop me off a mile or so away. He drove right up to the gates and when the soldiers came out to investigate, apparently gestured to me and said that I’d gotten injured and he was returning a fine soldier to his home. They let him go and got me into the infirmary.

“The shot had been fairly clean, but digging out the bullet and stitching it on the street meant infection set in. It was several days before I could even get ahold of my bearings. My men visited me, fairly shame-faced they had left me behind. One of them wrung his hands practically compulsively, repeating, ‘We didn’t think you’d make it out alive, oh God, we’re so _sorry_ ’ and I guess I was irritable by then, because I snapped, ‘Did you learn _nothing_ from Kandahar? Suicide missions are what I _do_.’”

Sherlock thought, yes, very very true. Insane suicide missions were entirely John’s purview. 

“And the rest of it you know. Medical discharge, psychosomatic limp, shoulder wound, back to London, so on.”

“There’s one thing I never understood about that discharge,” Sherlock says. “You were a general. Wouldn’t they just stick you back behind a desk?”

“They wanted to, but I put my foot down and told them to discharge me. There was no way I was staying behind a desk, ordering men to go where I couldn’t. Hell, I’d be sending good men to their deaths while staying safely away from the front lines. Not really my style.”

Definitely not. John was happiest in the thick of things. And, God, he’d been right, all those months ago. The story about the shoulder wound was _fucking insane_. A _scimitar_!

They really, really need to be back at the hotel. Sherlock is a ball of need by now. Mad Doc stories get him turned on like nothing else.

“John?” Sherlock asks. 

“Sherlock?”

His words come out in a rush. “I know we’re meant to be catching the train back to London, but oh God can we stay another night here and have you fuck me because I don’t think I can wait until London, fucking _please_.”

John grins, hearing everything Sherlock is saying – and everything he _isn’t_ (thank you for telling me, you almost died before we even met, I love you so fucking much).

“Yeah, I think I can work with that,” John says. “And, you know, it wasn’t a discharge in the strictest sense. I’m not ex-army, they have me on active status still. It’s been sort of agreed that I’m not with the army anymore, but, uh, they didn’t want to let me go formally. Technically speaking, I’m still a member of the army, just… not active? It was a unique situation. They _really_ didn’t want to let me go. It’s more indefinite medical leave. I think that means my gun isn’t actually illegal, although I never bothered to find out. Still probably for the best Lestrade doesn’t know about it.”

Sherlock _whimpers_. His husband is _active_ military, oh _God_ , they’re not near enough to their room (and he’s pulling into the carpark now). 

“John, General, fucking _please right now_ ,” he whines.

“Shhh, Sherlock, just a couple more minutes. I’m not fucking you in a Land Rover in a carpark. You can wait five more minutes.”

Sherlock nods frantically and bolts to their room.

*** 

Mycroft reviews the report from the base, written by the Major. Standard, given the use of his ID (really, Sherlock, _again?_ ). He frowns. There’s a lot not being said in it.

Most glaringly missing is Sherlock leaving after being discovered. He knows he’s placed that area out of bounds, but if the integrity of the base is compromised, that places it firmly back _within_ bounds. He picks up his phone and calls the Major directly.

“Mycroft Holmes here,” he announces. “Would you care to explain to me why an unauthorised civilian was allowed to remain at base after being discovered?”

The voice on the other end is thoroughly pissed-off. “Perhaps you’d care to explain why an unauthorised civilian had your ID, Mr Holmes.”

“That’s not important, and will be dealt with, you have my word. Mr Holmes – the younger – swiped the stolen ID once and the record shows him leaving well after I raised the alarm that it was not me there. Do explain why. And remember, Major, you report to me.”

He hears teeth grinding in anger. Fine. He doesn’t care. “Mr Holmes was accompanied by General Watson, sir. General Watson goes wherever the hell he wants.”

Mycroft frowns. He’s _heard_ of General Watson, of course – who in the British Government or military _hasn’t_? The man is a goddamn _legend_. (God, the _Queen_ has wanted to meet him personally for goddamn _years_ , and Mycroft’s not entirely sure why the man doesn’t have a knighthood by now).

No, the question is, how the _hell_ does Sherlock know _General Watson?_

A really, really bad thought comes to him. General John Watson. He had always thought it was a coincidence that Sherlock had found himself a man named John Watson – it really wasn’t an uncommon name – but holy mother of God, had he actually married _the_ John Watson?

“Mr Holmes?”

“I’ve never had the privilege of meeting General Watson,” Mycroft says finally (oh, how much he wishes that were true. He rather suspects he _has_ ). “Describe him to me.”

“Five seven, blond, blue-brown eyes, clean-shaven, was wearing a really horrible jumper today, unassuming air – honestly, if his prints hadn’t matched, I would never have known it was _General Watson_.”

“And Mr Holmes the younger. Was he on familiar terms with the General?”

The Major snorts. “You could say that. General Watson said Mr Holmes was his husband.”

Oh God oh God oh God. Mycroft isn’t sure where to start – General Watson is his _brother-in-law_. He’s simultaneously elated (because, as cold as Mycroft is, he’s been nothing but impressed by the dispatches about the man) and utterly horrified (because one of the most powerful men in the world is utterly besotted with _Sherlock Holmes_ ).

A cold trickle runs down his spine as he remembers their first meeting. Good _Lord_ , he _kidnapped_ the man and then _mocked_ him (bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity). And John had simply walked away, not engaged – and having read the dispatches, Mycroft is suddenly aware that he is very, very lucky. Hell, he’d told the man he was Sherlock’s arch-enemy – God, that was practically an engraved invitation to be injured.

The Major says slowly, “Mr Holmes the _younger_ … so you’re Mr Holmes the elder, which makes you two related – brothers. Which means you _know_ General Watson, because he’s your brother-in-law.”

Mycroft manages to get out, “Dr Watson – General Watson – never introduced himself as such to me.”

“I can’t imagine why,” the Major says drily. “Are we done, Mr Holmes?”

“Yes, Major, thank you.” Mycroft hangs up and feels the world spin slowly off its axis.

General Watson. Installed at 221B Baker, making endless cups of tea for Sherlock, and generally running after him. (Although, he thinks with some pride, he’d been _right_. Dr Watson _had_ missed the war).

Right. This doesn’t have to be a disaster. Clearly John likes danger and excitement and excels at getting out of impossible situations.

Honestly, just the kind of man MI5 needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of this story was inspired by a comment on Rescue (part three in Mad Doc Watson series). Many thanks to Azteka for the suggestion! 
> 
> Always open to suggestions -- can't promise I'll _use_ them or that they'll fit into the universe, but I would absolutely love to hear them anyway. Let me know if there's a particular crazy thing you'd like to see Mad Doc do, and I'll try to make it happen!


End file.
